Pork Sausage
I am tall-table young.
Mum turns up the blue flames,
lowers the thick sausages.
Dripping crackles,
the iron skillet is licked with fat,
a nutritive sizzle.
The meat finds its voice;
a splutter of buttery smaze.
The pork is in bloom,
the animal inside the flesh
disappearing,
the meat opening florets of aroma.
Mother turns, cheeks flushed,
not looking at me,
seeing only a man who will arrive soon,
say’s out loud:
“He will love these.”
My stomach cramps
with an acidic disappointment.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
